When I first received the handwritten letter from my father, I didn’t quite understand its meaning. Matter of fact, it would be years before I actually did. Nonetheless, I studied the envelope carefully, which had come wrapped in a clear Ziploc bag and then cautiously opened it, unfolding the piece of paper that would change my life forever.
A few weeks earlier, my dad had left on a business trip; he traveled a lot for work but as of late, he was always gone and my mother seemed especially despondent and sad about his latest absence. She, too, along with my brother and I, also received a letter. For whatever reason, perhaps instinct, I knew the situation wasn’t a good one.
The three articles of mail, which came in a larger tattered manila envelope were hand-delivered to our front door on a lazy Sunday afternoon. A family friend, who was one of my father’s co-workers, seemed reluctant to hand them over, but eventually he did and then left us to our day and our letters. The thing is…
When I was growing-up, I never really knew exactly “what” my dad did for a living. So, I couldn’t even begin to tell you what his co-worker did, either. I did think it was odd, though; he’d made the house call without my father there. It may sound strange, but all the mystery surrounding my dad’s job and his co-workers made perfect sense to me at the time. Mainly, because whenever I inquired, there were always a myriad of answers provided without hesitation.
The adults around me would say things like “He’s a handyman” or “He’s a jack of all trades” or “He fixes things” or “He helps people that are in trouble.” Eventually, though, the job title that ended up sticking was: “He’s a roofer.” That’s because…
After one of his many business trips, my dad returned home pretty worse for wear. He was limping, his left arm was in a cast and he was beyond tired, sleeping and resting more than I had ever see him do. When I asked what was wrong, I was told that my dad had fallen off one of the roofs he was working on and he needed time to heal. And…
That was that. Twelve-year olds have a tendency to believe what you tell them. After his fall, his trips grew less frequent and my mother grew more content, but alas, business always needed to be tended to and my dad packed his things and took off. This time, during his longer than usual absence, the letters came…
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